


A Little Bit of Discipline

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Series: Light in the Dark [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bladder Failure, Blind Character, Chronic Illness, Flashbacks, Forced Crossdressing, I'm back on my bullshit!, Illustrations, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Masochism, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Obsessive Behavior, Sadism, Smoking, Spanking, The aftermath of eye gore, Trauma, Unrequited Lust, Violence, Wilson gets stomped into a finely ground paste
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: William Carter had, after much turmoil and strife, succeeded in his aim...Well, er, more or less.{Tags will be added as story progresses. This won't make sense if you have not read Unraveled but if you wanna potentially be confused I won't stop ya.}
Relationships: Charlie/Maxwell (Don't Starve), Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: Light in the Dark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015873
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...And they were roommates... 
> 
> (On a side note - I've been really wanting to make and post some art for this au so if y'all wanted to see something in particular don't be afraid to throw a suggestion out in the comments :) )

Success was a sweet, thick wine. It was smooth on his palate, went down nicely, and made the jagged lines of his mind turn momentarily to a fuzzy outline. For a moment, just a little moment in time, William Carter was happy. 

Conquering men that boasted to be unconquerable was the most addictive vice of the civilized world. As a child, he had taken pleasure in crushing flowers underfoot, an atonement for their delicate beauty, for their vanity. Eventually, the flowers were animals, then the animals were men and women. That splendid rush of raw, violent power, the sadistic pleasure of asserting one will atop another and bearing down until something snapped, it had sufficed for some time. For years he had been satisfied. But now the novelties were dulling. He had destroyed so many lives, wrecked so many men's bodies, outwitted and outmanned a hoard of wretches that it failed to be as satisfying as it once had been. It was all so commonplace now, even to the point of tedium. The thrill was still there, in his core, seeing the hatred and terror in his victim's eyes as their life was stolen, but the methods of procuring the effects had gone stale. William Carter was bored. So, like a morphine abuser whose prefered vein had collapsed, he had been in the market for a new pathway to traffic his vices, and there came Wilson stumbling along. 

William watched over the little broken skeleton of a man slumbering peacefully on his couch and felt very, very pleased with himself.

Such a weak little man, but he knew how to dig his heels in. He was stubborn, not strong, and not all that smart either, but that was the charm of it. He had been different. He had put up an actual fight, had shown cleverness and fiery determination to boot. Wilson _refused_ to be conquered. To William, that was a challenge, one that he had jumped head first into. It was new, it had potential, and now...Now Wilson was mere clay in his hands, ready to be formed now that it had been melted down. 

He had crushed a thousand flowers underfoot but never had he endeavored to rebuild the petals into something after his own ideals. 

A loud snore tore through his thoughts, dashing some of the romanticism laced through them, bringing a not all there Carter back to reality. The old man sighed, cigar smoke billowing through his teeth and nose as his dear pet let out another monstrous snore in his sleep.

**Smother him.**

As tempting as it was, it would ruin the hard work he had put into the man thus far, and so he resisted, looking to the clock on his bedstand.

_4:56 AM._

Another impatient sigh left him, followed by a greedy suck upon his cigar. William Carter was not a man accustomed to sleep. The key was to keep moving, the more he moved, the farther away the deep ache in his bones seemed, the less he could feel phantom caresses raking claws down his psyche. The more he moved, the better everything as a whole remained. If he stopped too long, if he allowed himself to doze and his mind to wander, those aches would consume him, he knew it, and crawling out of that dark pit was getting harder each time...But now he had Wilson. He could bury himself in the lad, let that young dumbass be the target of his thoughts and concerns, a distraction, a new toy. 

Wilson gave a little snort, a minuscule jolt, and the older man's attention was arrested, scanning what little he could see of the boy's face, around the bandages protecting his damaged eyes. He was not the prettiest of sleepers, admittedly, nor was he that accomplished in the field of sleeping, or resting, to begin with. The only reason he was unconscious half the time was from the drugs Carter would push through his veins to render him limp while he went about cleaning what gruesome remains were left of his eyes and eye socket.

In the company of sleep Wilson laid in downright ungodly positions, contorting himself in different, equally impressive, and disturbing ways. His pet had a love of talking, as well, and so would attempt many times to run his gums from the land of dreams, mostly blubbering into his pillows about science. Speaking of the pillows, Carter had never been one for pity, but he pitied those pillows. For one, there was slobber all over them, as well as snot and tears, and they often ended up getting abused in some way through the night. The best fate they could hope for, much like the rest of his pet's current bedding, was that Wilson would wiggle himself away from them, or else dispel them from him unconsciously. 

And that was without taking into consideration the constant, unending nightmares which had plagued him in the days which he had been let loose from the dungeon. Trauma upon trauma rolled about like delicious slush in his skull all for William's sadistic taste testing. 

That being said, having to watch Wilson's sleeping form wiggle and snore like some devil-possessed worm was enough now to make him wonder after his little pet's bedroom. 

Crushing his cigar on a nearby ashtray, he rose and slipped back onto his person his suit jacket. Silently, he slipped out into the hall. As expected all was dark and empty as he traversed the short distance between his own suite and Wilson's room.

It was a rather large bedroom, comfortable, and he had ordered that any sharp edges which could be removed be removed, or dulled down. His orders had been carried through with, as expected. The only thing his pet could potentially skewer his brains upon was the head and footboards of his bed, and if he really tried, the doorknob.  
It was plain, simple, a red room with a comfortable dark brown bed, big enough for three or so. He did not anticipate his pet would be capitalizing upon this fact, however. There was a closet, of course, and a set of drawers be it that he needed storage for anything, as well as a black, sturdy chest, pushed up against the wall. The floor was carpeted, lush, lest Wilson trip and be met with the unfortunate effects of gravity, as Carter foresaw he would. The room was above all very safe and very comfortable. 

_He_ would be the only thing hurting Wilson on this manor. 

Per his orders as well there was, in the corner, away from the other furniture, all the objects necessary for him to be able to chain his pet up to the wall again if need be.

He clicked his tongue, a thought snapping through his mind as he looked upon the chains.

"That collar, where is it," on his heels he spun, searching the room now for a larger purpose. "Oh come on now I can't be that bullhead- ah," there it was, hanging from the headboard, waiting to be bestowed on his little pet. It was slim yet sturdy leather, colored a rich, almost black purple. A pleasing color, he thought, and many of the other items under his ownership was this sort of purple, leaving very little to question about Wilson's place on this manor. 

Pocketing the item, he took one last look around the glorified cell and, satisfied, left.

After fetching himself a glass of water from a servant and a book from his office, he returned at last to his rooms about twenty minutes after he had set out from them.

During his abscense, he came to find that much had changed. 

For one, Wilson was no longer on the couch, but instead spewed upon the floor, a lump of limbs and blankets and miserable mewls. The lump that he presumed was Wilson was shivering violently, whimpers and moans of fear exiting from where his head had ended up in the mess.

With a silent raising of his brow, he sipped his water, almost impressed at the positioning of the slumbering, fretting man's limbs, and how tangled he had managed to finesse the blankets into being. The trembling got worse, and the man began to battle to the death with the blankets trapping him, thrashing wildly with delightfully panicked sounds, as though he were being attacked by some wild beast.

Carter watched all of this with mounting curiosity, coming to stand by the lump as it continued shriveling. The cries were getting louder, they always did, he would be screaming soon.

One of the greatest things about Wilson was his screams. Some men stayed quiet under terror or pain, some men shivered and cursed, hissed and gurgled in their most pained moments, choking back their natural reactions from pride. Wilson screamed with abandon. He shredded his vocals cords to dislodge the horrid feelings from his bosom, screeched like he wanted God to hear until blood slicked his tongue and he choked on tears and spit, until his body gave up trying to support all of that energy and silenced him, then he just choked, and wheezed, but he never gave up trying to make sound.

Sure enough, those lovely screeches came, and they came, and they nearly shattered glass and made Carter's ears bleed, but he would have it no other way. An odd sort of warmth flowed through him, seeing so much suffering, hearing the wheezes, the begging, the ugly tears, and snot as his pet was tortured by whatever his mind supplied him tonight was rather...endearing, perhaps. It was always better when he himself was the one doing the torturing, but this sufficed to further brighten his overall day. 

Eventually, Wilson woke himself up with his own thrashing and crying, startling with a whimper. "M-master-" he mewled, holding each syllable longer than they needed to go, sounding less like a thirty-year-old man and more like a 3-year-old child.

"Yes, Wilson," he answered, stepping closer to the boy.

"W-where am I? wh-why ca-can't I move? what happened? Are-are you ok? I-is everything- the hounds, where-where ar-are t-t-the hou-hounds, where- I saw them they were-were right- WHY CAN'T A FU-FUCKING-FUCKING MOVE-" he twisted so hard Carter feared he would rip the blankets, successfully making the tangles even worse.

"Calm down. There are no hounds in this room last I checked, and you've made a mess of yourself." He crouched down and began to remove Wilson from the swaddle. Still, the boy squirmed, tears rolling down his blotchy cheek -he could only cry out of his left tear duct, so ruined was the right one-. 

"M-mess- what mess?" he whimpered, not quite there yet. "I made a-a mess?" 

"Hold still." He snipped and was glad to see a lessening of movement. Wilson's mouth, however, did not slow whatsoever.

"W-where am I?" he whined. 

"In my bedroom, where else would you possibly be?" was the cool, somewhat mocking response. 

"I-I don't- I thought I was, you see I thought I- oh," he was free from his binding quilts now, and now reveled in the fact, moving his legs and arms about freely. "Oh th-th-thank you- thank you..."

"Get back up on the couch Wilson." Was all William deigned to say, rising and going about straightening the cloth in his arms, more by habit than anything else. He loathed to see wrinkles, especially on such fine bedding. 

"I-I-I don't th-think I'm tired anymore..." Wilson mumbled, seeming afraid of the prospect of going back to sleep. Carter allowed himself to roll his eyes at that. "I-It's ok. I-I don't- don't want to really- I mean- what if the hounds, what if they come back? I-I wouldn't want that..." 

"How charming. It is five in the morning now, there are no hounds awake, nor will they break a entering. Furthermore, they would never dare to hurt me. I do train them, you know." he commented hoping that would do something. Alas, no. 

"O-oh...But still, I uh- I don't think I need to go bac-back on the couch- or back to sleep. I-uh- maybe-" 

"Well that's funny, because I told you to get up on the couch. That was not a request. Go."

"W-why? I'm not-" 

" _Go_ ," Carter demanded, voice rising as his tolerance lessened. Wilson flinched, nodding as though God himself had spoken and told him to start building the next ark. With incredibly shaky hands he began groping around him for furniture, blindly searching it out. It was a good method...yet he still ended up going in the completely wrong direction, dragging himself erroneously towards Carter's bed, shivering all the way. 

_That would not do._

"Over here," the older man said, standing by the couch.

Wilson jumped again, brows dipping below the bandages over his eyes as he tried to sort out where the sound was coming from. His shaking was getting worse, shoulders trembling something violent as his ribcage began to expand and deflate rather violently.

"W-where are-where-"

"I said, over here, focus and follow my voice Wilson. Calm down." He attempted to put some soothing element into his voice, yet it only seemed to worsen his pets disposition. 

"I-I can't" he cried, "w-where are you- please-pl-please just- I ca-can't- I CAN'T!" There were the tears, fat and ugly and alive again. "I can't SEE..." 

"Come on now, none of that, it's simple Wilson, I'm behind you, follow my voice" he said, trying to keep calm, to reason with Wilson for once. 

It was to late, though, Wilson was gone. "W-where- W-where is everything? Wh-why can't I see an-anything? Wh-why's it dark? Why's i-it-it dark m-master, I d-don-don't like the dark!" he was yelling now, in the full swing of a temper tantrum. Carter was too busy rubbing at the bridge of his nose to answer. "I-I don't LIKE the DARK," he shrieked, as though repeating himself over and over would get him anywhere. Truly, no better than a child. "I-I thought YOU s-s-said-said we LEFT. I w-w-w-want to-to- the dunge-dungeon- I want to leave the dungeon and-and the dark. Why can't we leave. Wh-what did I do? Wh-why can't we b-both go...You promised! Y-You promised it was ok! t-that it'd be o-o-ok." he was sobbing now, sounding almost angry. "Wh-what did I DO?" 

"Christ above Wilson," he grumbled, going to his pet and lifting him up, "I'm right here, everything is perfectly ok, and we're in my bedroom. I took you from the dungeon," he noted as he did so.

"W-where'd yo-you go!" he said angrily, ramming a fist into his master's shoulder, "W-why'd you leave me! and wh-why is it still dark!"

"I didn't bloody leave you. Don't hit me, stop that, you're being absolutely intolerable. What's gotten into you, you rotten boy?" William scolded as he carried Wilson back over to his couch. No part of the petulant boy's mood was made better by being sat down and forced onto his bed.

"I don't w-want to-" he shrieked, kicking like a mule at the man trying to get him to rest. "L-let go of me! G-get me out! I d-don't want to be-be here- get me out!"

"Bulloc- You fucking imp, calm down," growled Carter. For a bastard with one good leg, Wilson kicked hard. William was having none of it.

"L-let me up- Le-let me GO-" William was holding him down now by the shoulders, forcing him to lay despite his withering and writhing. "Let me go let me go LET ME F-FUCKING GO!" 

"If I tell you to go somewhere, you bloody well go. Stop-" Wilson finally got a kick into his gut, winding him for just the milliseconds needed for the wild boy to spring off the couch back onto the floor.

"No! N-no!"

"What was that?" he hissed, beyond fed up with this little act.

"N-no!" and the young thing began to scamper away akin to a crab, scuttling and slithering away at speeds Carter could hardly comprehend. The blood in his veins was boiling, temperature rising up and up, pressure mounting. Soon, very soon, something was going to explode, and then Wilson would regret ever being born into this cruel world. 

He watched Wilson as the man's back hit the wall, a little shriek exiting him as he began scrabbling for purchase, for a door, for something. "W-where am-am-am I- wh-where's my mas-master- my real master- where is he- you aren't- you aren't-" 

Something in William snapped, and before he knew it he had the brat by the ankle, then by his throat, wrenching him up off the ground to hang eye to eye with him. _"I'm right here pet."_ He choked and croaked, struggling, clawing at his master's hands as his face turned bright red. "You listen here you little shit, you can say _no_ to every other miserable Schlup on this planet, but not to me. When I tell you to bloody do something, you do it. Do you understand?" There was a nod, and an odd gurgling sound, spit dribbling out from his pet's lips.

With gritted teeth, he slammed the boy down into the ground, satisfied by the hollow thump he made as he hit the floor, and the cry that exited him.

Fury blinded him for a moment, and he felt his foot colide the the boys ribs. The bend of bone under his dress shoe and the unholy shrieks that followed were enough to clear his head...

"I-I just- I-I'm sorry," he begged now, clutching at his presumably bruised rib, sobbing. "I just- I just- I don't understand, I don't, why can't I see- see- why- what's happening?" 

"If you want answers from me, you must learn how to ask for them correctly." Wilson flinched, whimpering under the cold, scathing tone of his master. 

"I-I-I'm sorry," he muttered, curling up into himself. 

Carter grimaced down at the younger man, contemplating a suitable punishment. 

**Crack his skull open.**

**Break e** **very bird bone in his body.**

**Slit his throat.**

**Smote him with your heel til the deed is done.**

A pretty picture, these thoughts were, and usually he would succumb to them. But this was different, this took another level of care...Wilson was a new experiment. He had his uses, still. 

At last a new thought wandered into his head. It stuck hard and fast. 

Wilson yowled as his precious dark locks were gripped viciously and he was drug back to the nearest bit of furniture, Carter's bed. The older man sat down, planting both feet firmly on the ground, apart, and forcing the quivering, wiggling boy to lay across his lap. 

"If you wish to act like a petulent child, then you shall recieve the punishment of one," he growled as Wilson began to question what was happening. 

"Wh-what are you going to-AH-" he tensed violently as his pants were shoved down to hang at his knees, unergarment as well. "M-m-mas-" his face was scarlet, tongue ceasing to function as he was laid bare. "I-I-" 

"Shut up," William snapped, looking at what he had to work with. Keeping a firm grip on Wilson's nape, forcing him to stay down, he raised his leather clad glove. 

_SMACK!_

It reverberated around the room and on its heels was a cry. 

"M-MAS-" 

"I said shut up," he bellowed, letting his hand come down hard once more against the boys bare, red ass. Wilson practically shrieked, fingers gripping into the sheets violently as he shook, shoulders and back coiled tight as the onslaught continued. 

Carter knew that no decent parent would ever hit their child how he was hitting Wilson, but he was not decent, nor was this his child. Wilson was a fully grown man, and so recieved the bruises and blisters of one. 

With each cruel strike Wilson let out various loud, pained sounds, intermingled with apologies, and huffed breaths. At first William was satisfied with the suffering he heard, then he noticed something...Wilson's tone, the curve of his spine, the breaths spilling from him, the quiver of his entire body as he was hit. Each strike did something, shifted something, with each new bruise something became more amiss, and it was only as William acknowladged a certain hardeness brushing his leg that it clicked what was happening. 

Wilson liked it. 

At once his hand stilled, paused their onslaught, and Wilson whimpered. He sounded _disappointed_. Another whine spilled from the boys throat, that hard lumb he felt against his leg began to shift, to..."Wilson." horror was creeping up through him as his pet startled. This is _NOT_ what he had intended, quite the opposite, in fact. 

"Wh-wha..." He mumbled, obviously in a sort of haze. "Master please," he began humping Carter's leg unsteadily, quick snaps of his hips. 

He had lived a long, odd, wretched life, yet nothing in those 50 years could have prepared him for _this._

Yes. Yes. He had molested the boy once, _once_ , in a mad, vile moment of curiosity, of morbid interest in how far he could push, a sort of hazy fever dream he hardly remembered but in fragments. An experiment. That was all. And he had lied about it afterwards, forced it to be Wilson's little issue. There was also that bath incident, which had been shoved deep under thr rugs of his subconscious. He had never thought...Wilson moaned, breaking him from his thoughts. 

"Wilson." He snapped, shoving the man from his lap. He hit the ground with a yelp, startling back to some form of reality. Horror was trading itself for annoyance within William Carter as he stood. 

"M-master- ma-master where- why-" he panted. "W-Why did you-" 

"You aren't supposed to be _enjoying this!_ " He shouted, watching the boy flinch back. Sure enough, his little cock was at full flag, begging to be satisfied. "This is a punishment, for gods sake, what's the matter with you!" He rose. 

"I-uh- oh...oh god..." He seemed to be realizing what was happening, and his face became a mess of mortified blush. "I-" 

**Kick his ugly mug in.**

This time he did not possess the self-control necessary to resist the temptation. 

He rose quickly landing a swift, brutal kick to Wilson's face, venting the anger out as a snap followed underfoot. Wilson cried out, hands flying to his nose. "How am I supposed to bloody punish you if this is how you react you daft cunt!" 

"I-I can-can't help it!" 

"What, did you hump your mother when she beat you as well?" A low blow, perhaps, but William would be damned if he cared. Nothing about his little pet was pleasing him at the moment, nothing, and after all the work he had put into the bastard, it was like God's next spit in the face. He deserved it, he reckoned, but that did not halt the anger welling up within his bosom. 

"N-No!" he yelled, face screwing up, "O-of course-Of course not I-I hated-I never-" 

"So what's it about me then eh," he growled. 

"I-I don't know..." he whimpered, curling into himself, "I just-I- it just happened I- whenever you tou-touch me it-it-I-uh-IlikeitwhenyoutouchmeandIguessitjust...uh..." wisely he decided to shut his yapper. William snagged on those words, such stupid, honest words. Wilson was a very stupid, honest person, he always had a knack for handing his Achilles heels down to the last person that should know them. 

William huffed, sick of looking at his pet for the moment. With heavy footfalls he left the room, locking the door behind him despite the sounds of confusion and desperation behind him. What he needed was a quiet, detailed inspection of the situation at hand. 

His feet took him to the garden, steady and rhythmic as his mind rolled over what had taken place in the last day. This was not going to plan, to say the least. Rare was the time when anything in his life DID follow his instructions and stick to form. That was simply a luxury that he had never been afforded with, and thus now was used to the annoyance still sitting like a hot haze within his chest. Familiarity did not equal contentedness, nor pleasure, however, and he found himself once more wanting to strangle the lad. 

He would have done so, would have smote him into the ground for his damnable petulance and disciplined him like any other servant or captive of his, like any other maggot on this cursed planet, but _no_. Wilson, ever the unique little anomaly, had decided to be special, to break away from his fellow man and derive pleasure from harsh beatings and degradation...A certain shiver started deep within him, built up in his guts, until it released in what looked more like one large, unhappy twitch. Behind his eyelids there sat, unsettling, the feeling of the boy thrusting against his thigh, moaning in abandon, of what it had felt like to grope that tiny ugly organ through the owners pants until he was on the very edge...In hindsight the evidence was all there, that he would not be able to beat Wilson like everybody else, not when he was attempting to teach him something, lest the message get screwed about in his masochistic little mind...Another twitch and all he could do was hope that Wilson did not get any _unfortunate ideas._

Forcing his mind away from that subject, he corralled it forward, to think of something more pressing. 

It was not so hot as he had dreaded it might be when he stepped out from the open sunroom down onto the patio of his garden. Already the fresh air trickled into his brain, dispelling his annoyance somewhat and allowing it to replace itself with some amount of rationality. He breathed in a deep, warm breath, looking to the luscious bounty of exotic shrubs and flowers for inspiration as he began once more to stride forward. Alas, the foliage, though beautiful and fragrant, did not tell him the answers to his issue, but he appreciated them nonetheless. Walking amongst nature, he reminisced, picked through his memory of Wilson, from first dinner to now, attempting to draw out more weak spots. 

He wished to be touched by Carter, admitted so himself just minutes previous. Therefore, to discipline him, Carter would obviously have to remove his touch from the boy, or his presence altogether. A snort of a chuckle exited through his nose at the thought, a sort of ironic grimace twisting his lips. Most would find his disengagement from their vicinity a blessing beyond comparison, it would be a gift, but to his little pet, it was a curse...With this basic concept, he began to tinker, expanding upon it, playing with situations in his mind. Obviously, any good master has a pecking order for which punishments may be dealt out, different transgressions warrant a corresponding level of severity. 

"He must be quartered off, but how, where..." he muttered to himself, an old habit from his youth when he had no one to talk to but himself and the window of his bedroom. "It shall not do to keep him in my bedroom, that was rather stupid of me, he is comfortable in there and has emenities- that won't do at all..." 

**Lock him outside.**

"He begged to go outside, the outside is a pleasure to him. Perhaps even more than staying inside...For small offenses, perhaps...But if he continues to act like a buggering little brat, it is not nearly uncomfortable enough." He took a cursory glance around himself, by now lost deep in the guts of the garden, meeting eyes with a tall, large tree. "I could chain him up..." he mumbled, barely over his breath, looking up into the branches. "Yes, that might just do. He can hear and feel the outside, but cannot run as he would please. He is a squirmy little thing..." 

**Hack his good leg up.**

"Charming idea, perhaps if he attempts to run away, but no, no...I wish for him not to loath me. I wish to be-" he let the statement die out in the air, not daring to finish it. "He is squirmy, he needs to move...I do not wish to confine him again as I was forced to before, I do not wish for that, however, it is useful..." 

**Hogtie him. Store him like a dead pig.**

"Ah, there we are. Once more we come back around to chains, always chains, people are always so much more agreeable in them-" 

"Master Carter!" 

The call of one of the younger servants broke him from his aimless rambles, he turned sharply, scowling as the young thing stumbled towards him, skidding to a stop at a respectable distance away, looking pale and out of breath. 

"What?'

"Master- uh- Gregory the-the butler he uh, he heard distress from your bedroom. Y-your uh- you're pet seems to be in much distress- uh-" 

"And?" 

"I-uh-I was just told by him- he was wondering-I guess uh-" the fear in the boys crystal blue eyes was delicious, though Carter could have done without all the circumnavigating. "You told us to tell you if-if there was any change in him- it- uh-" He supposed he had made that order at some point. 

"He's supposed to be in distress. Now kindly go away. You are only to disturb me again if the distress sounds fatal, understood?" 

A frightful, 'y-yes sir' was squeaked before the boy was gone. Carter watched him sprint off, a sort of upbeat flicker snapping through him like the spark of a match. "See, yes, we are on the right track. He is distressed Good. We shall keep him distressed until, say..." he retrieved his pocket watch, opening it. "Blimey, he'll stay distressed as long as it pleases me, but I should have gotten my tea by now!" 

Tea was fundamental, though sometimes he did replace it with coffee. He took black tea, occasionally trading it for Earl Grey or some other equally strong concoction. Sugar was forbidden, as he believed passionately that it ruined the tea's integrity -not to mention the integrity of his joints when its awful effects took hold-. It was not a good day when he had less than three cups of the stuff, as it was the only thing minus spite still forcing his haggard, wretched mortal vessel through this equally wretched mortal plane. 

To think that he had gotten to six thirty AM without it was a testimony of how bothered he was by Wilson's outbursts. Frankly, that fact did not bode well. 

Nonetheless, he righted his wrong and sat down in the sunroom, sipping the warm black life-giving leaf and spice water, still pondering alternative methods of punishment. For better efficiency, having come to terms long ago with the fact that he indeed could be somewhat scattered brained - _"Oh you doof, you can't run to save your life, yet that handsome head of yours flies a mile a minute."_ \- he allowed himself to call for his notebook and pen to be brought down. 

As he sipped his tea, he could not help but look at that notebook, old and faded and beat up as it was. It had contained his various scheming and planning and papers for a little over 20 years now. It had seen a lot of things. He had hardly used it when he came to find himself permanently established away from civilization, there was less to plan, besides lists of items he needed to order to keep his own dear hellhole stocked and civilized, which he kept elsewhere. There were a few scribbles across random leaflets concerning the properties he owned and rented out, but other than those things the old beat-up journal seemed more like a relic of his youth...

_"You're always writing blueprints for the show out on whatever surface you can find..."_

_"That is very kind of you, but you didn't have to-"_

_"But I wanted to! Think of it as a gift from me to you, and to the desks and walls you always manage to mark up."_

It felt wrong, opening it and using it for the purpose he had in mind. _She_ would not be happy if she knew, he felt it, felt the shadows creeping up his spine, tugging at his feet, tugging and tugging, waiting for him to give in and fall and- he shook his head, gulping down some tea. Ridiculousness. Utter ridiculousness. 

These papers were merely paper, the journal merely a place for him to organize himself, and it had been given to a William Carter that no longer existed, by a woman who was long gone. 

So, despite that childish feeling of guilt swelling within him, he opened the old thing to one of the back, empty pages, uncapping his pen as he swallowed the lump in his throat down with tea. 

_**Minor offense - Locked in room. Thrown outside. Put back in collar and chain. Deprived briefly of the privilege that is me.** _

_**Mild offense - Chained to tree. Claustrophobic space. ~~kept in closet.~~ Broom closet NOT regular one, might damage valuables. Small spaces with no light (investigate house further for applicable locations). **_

_**Major offense - Dungeon.** _ _**Limb confiscated. Hounds.** _

_**Severe offense -** _

He stared at the last category, pen hovering just above the page. Nothing came to him for a moment, mind a blank static canvas, then it slid into place. There really was only one option. 

_**Execution.** _

The list was a vague one, merely sketchy guidelines, but it was enough to make him feel once more as though this situation was still firmly in hand. There was no longer intolerable anger dwelling anywhere in his chest, just cool, crisp understanding of his next moves. 

Really, life was not so unlike chess, in the sense that there was always a move to be calculated, always a logistics game to be won, and he lived for it. He lived for the game, for the chase...for the challenge. It would be worth it all, so long as he kept his brain upon his shoulder, he could wrangle Wilson in and craft him into the worthy companion pet he knew he could be. It would only take a little bit of discipline. 

He took such confidence with him as he closed the journal, downed the last of his tea, and lit a cigar. It clung to to him all through that lazed smoke, as well as a little snack of buttered bread. It followed him and even grew stronger, as he reentered his large dwelling and made strides towards his bedroom.

It had been about two hours since he had last locked his pet in, the boy had probably learned enough of a lesson for today. If he hadn't, he would simply be transferred into his own room and locked under collar and chain until he did. 

"Is he still alive in there," he asked a servant who had been lingering near the door to William's chamber, seeming awkward.

"Yes sir, I reckon so. I...uh...Quite alive, yes sir." was all the servent offered. Somewhat intriguing Carter to dismiss him and hurry forward. He imagined his little pet would be no better than he had been the day he had pulled him from the dungeon, or the hours afterward. Limp, exhausted, his entire universe hinged on William, begging to be cared for and touched, repentant of his sins. In those few days, Wilson had practically been an angel, soft putty for William to play with and mold and take care of. 

He imagined, as he entered first his personal sitting him, and made his way to the still locked bedroom door, that Wilson had been crying himself hoarse for him, whining and scratching at his thin, pale arms, driven mad by the guilt of having disappointed his lord and master. He hoped to see a miserable, tear-stained face when he entered, to hear such a spew of apologies and such desperate pleads for forgiveness, for the boy to go hand on knee, to kiss the leather of his shoes just for the chance to be allowed back in William's presence. A wicked, soulless smile stretched his lips as he slammed the door to the bedroom open. 

Instead of a tearful Wilson, he was met instead with a mess, unlike anything that had ever graced his strictly kept property. Hell and her Furies had swept through his room, and had not been kind. 

On the far side of the bedroom, on the right wall, there had once stood a very nice, tall, antique dresser, on which he had put a number of things, and in which sat many of his Late Summer accessaries, such as ties and their matching handkerchiefs. This beautiful piece of furniture was no longer upright, but instead had taken a nasty tumble forward, all of the contents on top of it scattered over the floor. One vase, in particular, a little thing that had held white roses, was shattered, and there were drops of blood upon the rug which lay underneath its remains. Those droplets blazed a trail over to Wilson's couch, which looked just as disastrous. The man's pillows were stained with more blood, as were the sheets, which were crumpled up and tainted by...He did not want to know, and moved his eyes where the trail of fluids led, which was his bed. 

Oh, his poor bed. 

Purple velvet had been draped so gracefully to frame it, and now one of those graceful curtains, which would have covered the left corner, had fallen and now lay crumpled in a suspiciously bulky, shivering ball. He watched that ball shiver, jaw burning and teeth creaking as he saw the perpetrator of these disasters peak his pale, guilty face out from the bulk of velvet only to sheepishly say: "I-I can explain...?" 

In that moment William Carter, as he stared over the spluttering boy, saw a long road ahead of himself, filled to the brim with lots and lots and _lots_ of discipline for his dear pet. 


	2. Art!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of my writing energies are currently being gobbled up by school and another non-DS-related fic, as well as the fact that the plot for this bad boy went a little wonky... However, I didn't want to just leave y'all hanging over here, so I drew some things as offerings.

A lyric thingymajig. Like most of my paintings, I don't know how I feel about the end product but my hands refuse to work on this anymore so here you go. I'm still stretching my digital art muscles so hopefully everything is legible and good. Lyrics are from You Belong To Me by Those Poor Bastards.

More fun time dungeon antics with Wilson, Wilson's blood, and possessive William, everyone's favorite combo. 

and now for some sketches, sponsored by my excruciatingly boring Lit. Class 

A little hint to whats to come ;) 

A roughed up Wilson all tied up in a bow for his master. Why? who knows but who cares! 

Mr. William Carter judging us all as though his own sins don't far outway our own

W̶̛̛̙̹͙͚̹̹̮̤͔̰̪̮͇̯̿̉̆̀̆̍͌͐̅̔̎̐͆́͘͘̕̚͝i̷͕͚̣͚̼̳̺̳̱͌l̸̨͈̫̜͚̪̬̪͖̝͚͋̋̉͝ͅs̷͕̗̦͍̼̺͓̞̥̣̳̠̱͓͇̣̣͓̎͋͒̊̔̍̃̆̋̀͒̍͛ò̸̧̨̖̼̲̞͉͚̲͙͎̥̲̟͈͈̝͖̅̔̂͊͐͛̚̕n̷̞̱̮͖̗̲̰͍͔͓̦̖͈͇͚̲͎̲̪̪̬̩̯͓̲̪̼͕̋̽̊̚ ̷̡̨̢̥̥̠̞̱̦̠̠̦͓͕͓̈͑̈́͂̔̓L̸̢̨̬̣̠͍͉̣͚͕͐̈́̓̔̽͒̏̂̓̊͋́̕͜͝͝ ̵̘̳̮̟͚͍̭̯͎͕̼̜̹̦͌̃̃̋͂̐̔͠Ư̸̺̖̘̲̱̯̜̆̅͊̌̔̇̾̂͒̎̊̒͐̎̃̕̚͘ͅ ̶̛̺̞͖̠̉̇́͗͋̑̓͐̃̈́͂̄͗̕̕͜R̵̹͍̲̜͙̠̪̤͉̰̠̼̳͑̌̔̏̈́̓̀́̍̾͆̈́̐̂͜͠ ̸̛͎̆͂͑͠K̶̛̲̀́͐̽̑̑̓̊̆̈́̄̑̆͂̑̀̉̅̐̄̕͘͝ ̵̡̨̧̛̘̺̭̘͉̲̹̤̼͕̬̝̜̅̂͗̋̏̋̔͂͆͌̍̓͐̇̓̏̿̕̚͜͜S̴̟̠̲̥͐̅


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been digging the whole "not having 6,000 something word monster chapters" lately with my writing, so chapters will probably be shorter from now on. Hypothetically that means there will be faster updates, if life behaves. Feel free to say if you prefer longer chapters though! For now, have some nastiness!

"I - I can - I can explain - " warbled Wilson for the hundredth time, tears straining his throat. The clatter of chains being shuffled accompanied the blabbering, shackles begging to be unclasped. "Just listen, please, just- there's a perfectly re-re-reasonable expla-" His voice was a mere rasp against his raw throat, so tired out from pleading to deaf ears.

"Is there now?" He asked. William was furious, it clung to the back of his throat, a constant pressure building by the megaton, ready to explode. It was like a collar tightly winding around his neck, heavy, demanding, and not unlike the one his pet was trapped in now. Yet he held it back, did not allow it to master him so soon, pressing the raw edges of fury into something cold, cruel, and dangerously calm. That was worse, he knew, then pure anger, a fuller punishment. So he stood, watching his pet squirm and writhe in his chained up state, trying to demand council futilely.

"Yes-" 'Wilson gasped, sniffling violently, trying to scramble for composure. "Yes there- I was just- I was- I was trying to get-get-get my-my bearing- trying to get my bearings! Yes! T-that's all, I never-never meant to make such a-a-a-a mess please I'm so-sorry-I'm sorry!" It was all such a garbled mess, but William caught the general meaning. He let the silence hang, drug out Wilson's suffering further.

"Did I authorize that?" he finally said, watching as the man before him crumbled further into himself, trying to disappear into the wall he was chained to.

"I-I was going mad! You don't understand I-" he was cut off right then and there.

"What was that?" He asked, still calm, eerily, eerily calm. Wilson seemed to see that he had made a mistake, backing further into the corner of his room.

"I-I said- I meant- I didn't mean to imply I just- it seems like you aren't un-understanding what I-I-I'm-I'm trying to say." the fear of God was in the boy's voice. Good. "I-I just meant that I was g-going insane j-just sitting-sitting there, I-I can't just-"

"But I told you to."

"W-wh-"

"I told you," every word was edged, whipping Wilson like a cat-o-nine tail as he approached his petrified pet, "to sit there. To sit on that couch and rest. Never did I _once_ say that you could wander about on your own."

"I-I can't just-I can't just s-s-s-s-it and-"

"Yes you can."

"Huh-"

"You can," he looked over his pet, taking aim mentally, " _because I told you to_." Only then did he let the malice bubbling in his chest overflow into his words, punctuating it with a swift, lethal kick between the young man's semi- spread legs. He could hold himself together no longer, he had to maim something. He had to break something, destroy something underfoot, tear and shred and give leave to all of the fury choking his esophagus. The anger he had bottled up was spilling out faster than he could comprehend, tinting his vision a hazy red, overcoming him, and taking the reigns. He _**would**_ hurt Wilson and Wilson _**WOULD NOT**_ like it this time. 

Wilson let out an inhuman shriek, curling to protect his most intimate, bruised bits.

" _I told you,_ " Willaim bellowed, delivering another kick, this time to the most sensitive portion of the floating ribs, " _multiple times,_ " another kick, this time to the skull, his voice roaring above Wilson's shrieks, " _with the upmost patience,_ " another kick to the face, " _to stay on that couch. And this is what you do?_ " He was getting stronger now, angrier, every little and big time Wilson had pissed him off in the last days coming back to him, powering his cruel attacks. " _You're a pig. An ant. A worthless piece of scum hardly worth my spit. You've done nothing. In the last week. But give me. **A FUCKING HEADACHE-** " _His foot slammed into his pet's fragile body, over and over, again and again...

He stopped eventually, leaning on the wall to catch his ragged breath, sweat dripping from his brow, sneaking into his eye as he pressed his forehead up against his bent arm. His hands shook, everything shook, and he felt relaxed. The tension that had wracked his frame, coiled up his back and tightened like a spring had at least released, and he was human once more. All was good, in that moment, euphoric almost. 

Wilson was unconscious, but still alive. William let his fingers rest against the fluttering pulse of his bruised neck. Every bit of him was stomped into oblivion, bruised, bloodied, broken... _beautiful_.

The thought caught him off guard at first, for Wilson himself was nothing impressive. But as he stared down at his swollen, bloodied lips, the bruises on his face, down his neck, the blood soaking into the concrete below from his naked, battered body, all a mix of flourishing blues, purples, reds, and whites, there was appeal there. There was something intoxicating about the sight of destruction, of tarnished bodies strewn about in agony, right at death's doorstep, and he had never been able to resist that something. The colors of abuse were so vibrant, blooming over the skin like the rich cloths he sowed into suits. It crafted boring, flabby meat into art, or at least into something tolerable.

Yet no matter how charming to behold, he was still angry with Wilson. With a huff William let the lads head fall back to the ground, rising up and straightening his suit.

If his servant was surprised when he inquired after borrowing a uniform of hers, she wisely showed nothing of it, instead hurrying to fetch him what he needed. She was small, slim, and the closest size to what he needed, and he took the dress and apron back to Wilson's room, where he had been chained.

Before he entered he placed his ear to the door, and upon hearing sniffles and sounds of misery, slammed the door open with extra gusto. Wilson flinched violently, scrambling back into his corner as though that would protect him. "M-master-master I-" he choked on whatever he was attempting to say. William said nothing, took no step forward. Merely waited.

He saw the moment Wilson began to question fretfully over his own sanity and took that moment to begin. "Get up." He ordered. Wilson startled himself nearly out of his skin, jumping violently.

"I-I-"

"Get up," there was a threat there. Wilson scrambled to obey, wrenching himself from the ground despite his obvious pain and lack of a good left leg. In order to stay upright he had to put plenty of weight onto the wall, onto the bruises that forced whimpers and flinches from him. William allowed it, taking measured steps towards his pet, making sure he heard each and every one of them, making sure they dragged claws of anxiety through him.

"I'm-"

"Did I authorize you to speak?" William asked. That shut Wilson up quickly as he came to a stop, towering over the quivering pet. He dug into the man with his eyes, knowing damn well Wilson could feel his dead stare like fire through his nervous system. Sure enough, soon the boy was quaking even more, knees clacking together, hands trembling, sweat slicking his sickly flesh and...William had to hold back his own laugh as Wilson whimpered, face a shamed red as piss dribbled down his legs onto the floor. "You do nothing but make messes, don't you?" he hissed. Wilson tried to shy away, but William grabbed him by the throat, shoving him up into the wall and unfurling the maid's uniform tucked under his arm. "And you know that every mess needs cleaning up. You can't just leave it there to rot. That's why God gave us little maidens, they're so wonderfully skilled at putting things right again." Wilson was gurgling against his hand. "Well, I don't see any little ladies here to clean up all the damage you've done in the last twenty-four hours, no kind women whose skillful hands can undo your grievous misdemeanors, and what a shame that is..." he allowed his voice to reveal that it was no great shame to him, that he enjoyed his solution to that issue.

If Wilson had not already pissed himself earlier, he looked as though he surely would have then. William sucked all that terror in like holy nectar.

William attacked him in this weak, petrified state, forcing the maids uniform onto him with such ferocious rapidity that Wilson hardly had time to protest or struggle until he was halfway into it. The moment he figured out that it was in fact a dress being tugged onto him he began at once to protest, tempting William to have another stomping session with his body. " _STOP FIGHTING!_ " he boomed, disarming Wilson from the physical struggle at once, though he was still incredibly tense. The verbal complaints, however, only doubled. Why this, why that, why any of it, over and over in a mess of stuttering and crying as his bruised body was fitted into something he did not want, nor understand. 

Nonetheless, the job was finished and it was not long at all until his pet was standing, roughhoused and trembling, utterly confused, in his new clothes.

"Oh but look here, now here's one, here's a maid to get the job done!" William cried, still choking on his own wicked cackles as Wilson blanched in full realization.

"I-I'm not-I'm not a maid! I-I'm a m-m-man of--of science- w-why am I we-wearing a d-dress. I-I-I'm..." he continued to splutter and croak, panicked, even offended. William grimaced, annoyed by the chatter he had not asked for. "T-this i-is wo-womans clot-clothing..." 

"I ask you again, little maiden, did I authorize you to speak?" William cut it. This time the warning was no success at all. 

"...I-I'm not-I'm not a-why are yo-you calling me..." continued Wilson. 

He had prepared for this, of course, and went quickly to the chest by Wilson's bed, rustling through all the instruments of torture within and grabbing what he needed.

"One thing which I prefer in my maids," he began, stepping quickly back over to his still rambling pet, quickly slamming him chest first into the wall, pinning him with his body, "and most of my servants for that matter..." He took a chunk of black, oily hair in his fist and yanked it back, snapping Wilson's head to the proper angle, forcing the metal bridle into his struggling pet's mouth, saying as he did: "Is that they be _mute_."

He gave Wilson all the materials he would need to clean the master bedroom, leaving him to figure out the 'how' of the matter, only easing himself down onto his bed, watching like a hawk at the struggle which ensued. The fact that Wilson was blind meant nearly nothing to him, excused not one single thing in his mind. Blind men were nothing to trifle with and he had seen them many times, in all assortment of ways be just as capable as their seeing counterparts, and so he expected it to be with his little pet. He wanted a capable dog, not a useless, brattish mutt. In blinding Wilson he had merely blocked out the possibility of escape, Wilson would never, ever come to know any sort of exit from his property, he would never be made to know how to get out of the home without Williams's guidance, but that did not mean he had to be completely dependent on William for all forms of navigation. Furthermore, it would not excuse bad behavior. 

Wilson would learn. He would force Wilson to learn. 

In the meantime, he said nothing, offered no help, merely laid, merely watched.

At first, Wilson was utterly overwhelmed, whimpering and moaning trying to figure out how to shoulder his punishment. He dragged himself about on hand and knee, being without any sort of cane, trying to figure out any of what was happening around him. Eventually, however, he found the knocked-over dresser and managed to successfully get it back to its original position. Once more there was a struggle afterward, Wilson pressing his grubby fingers on everything, in every manner, attempting to determine through his own stupidity whether something needed fixing or not. William said nothing, merely watched. 

Often, in the process of blindly attempting to pick up things and put them back, Wilson turned to his master for guidance. No guidance was given.

There were moments when Wilson stopped moving altogether, frustrated tears and ugly noises spilling from him. Only then would William speak: "Did I tell you to stop you worthless cunt?" That would get him moving again, albeit still crying.

After more battering and stumbling and blunders Wilson seemed to have mapped out the master bedroom, though he was still miserable as he felt around for things to sort. All the spilled contents of the dresser were folded correctly eventually. William instructed him in this much, seeing that the man had not known how to properly fold a piece of clothing when he could see either. His primary mode of instructing was to scream at Wilson until he knew what a tie felt like as opposed to a handkerchief, and where each item of his precious accessories and undergarments went within the drawers. After that had been settled everything that had rested atop the dresser was picked up and placed back generally where they had come from, unless they were broken. Eventually, he made his way to his own bed, folding the blankets -which William intended to burn later on- and scrubbing the couch itself down with the cleaner he had all his maids use, for it was spectacular at removing blood and vomit. 

The tears were continuous, a constant river of pain moistening Wilson's face, dripping down to his dress, or the floor. William admired them, distracting himself from the growing ache in between his own bones, and the pinch of overexertion over his nerve endings, the tug of exhaustion from a week of no sleep, a week of throwing himself fully into the project that was Wilson. 

_"You always stretch yourself so thin, too thin! Won't you ever take care of yourself, just once, for me if not for yourself?" He felt her delicate fingers combing his sweat-slicked hair back, pressing his hot forehead and gasping, retreating from the burning flesh. "Oh my God. You're boiling. Just you wait here a moment, let's get you a cold towel..." All he could think as he laid there was that he had worried her. Worried the one woman he strove only to make happy...He wanted to kill himself as she hurried back to his side, pressing a blissfully cold cloth to his brow, attempting to soothe his high fever. "It's alright bunny, don't cry, why are you crying?" Crying? Was he crying? He had no right to cry, had no right to worry her over his rotting, worthless, wicked husk even further, had no right to bother her with his plague. "shhh," she hushed, sitting herself on the bed, stroking his hair and kissing his cheek._

Laying down had been a mistake...His joints were stiffening, pain jolting with every little movement he attempted, brain fogging over now and again as his body self-destructed. All week he had pushed the permanent state of his awful, ugly body to the furthest shadowy corners of his thoughts, almost forgetting about the constant pangs of pain deep within him, about the constant threat of falling incapable to the illness that had tarnished him from his first breath. Now he had stopped. Now he had let his body catch up to him. He had let his guard down...His breaths rattled in his chest, his own anger and disgust simmering just below the surface as he attempted to stretch his fingers, curl his toes, bend his knees, sending waves of slow, marrow-deep agony dragging like thorns up his spine. He grit his teeth, ignoring it, ignoring the cold ache of his limbs, ignoring the way his stomach turned with each movement, burning into his brain. It would pass. It always passed. 

_"_ _It's alright my dear Mr. Carter, you'll be up and at 'em again in no time. Please don't fret..."_

He grits his teeth to dust against the unwanted, warm, tender memory, angry with the putrid sack of flesh he called a brain for making him remember it at all. Angry furthermore at every other part of him, at every element that had combined to make his flawed infrastructure. 

_**Weak.** _

_**Pathetic.** _

_**Revolting.** _

_**Fucking Worthless.** _

He focused his eyes on Wilson once more, on his pet, his infuriating, lousy excuse of a pet, and took the distraction that his broken boy offered as a source of solace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William was born with RA (Rheumatoid Arthritis) but the biggest struggle in his life has actually been OUBD (Old Unredeemable Bastard Disease).

**Author's Note:**

> Tfw you want a worshiping slave but you get a horny clumsy hell gremlin instead


End file.
